


One Angel's Kiss

by StarRose



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, turned angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarRose/pseuds/StarRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brother Cenwulf wrote secret poems about his fellow Monk and friend Athelstan, though he wasn't sure why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Angel's Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> There is a scene in this that refers to a scene in the extended version of Vikings, where Brother Cenwulf attempts to escape from the Vikings by swimming out to sea. Rollo runs after him and tries to drown him for a laugh, before dragging him back to the others.

_ One Angel’s Kiss _

Brother Cenwulf knew there wasn’t anything particularly special about himself.  He was an average singer in the choir as he and fellow brothers praised the Lord above, an average worker around the monastery, cleaning and tending to the fields out back, even just an average writer.  He always got his work done but it was nothing special, he could never create his writings as quickly and as beautifully as others, especially Brother Athelstan.

Cenwulf was 19 when the little 8 year old Athelstan was brought to the monastery, a great big mop of black curly hair atop his head, his body small and terribly thin.  Apparently he’d been given to the monastery as his family were too poor to feed him and his many siblings, and it easily showed.  But even half-starved the boy was so bright eyed, looking around at what would be his new home with such enthusiasm, holding a very tattered bible to his chest, a gift from his father, as Cenwulf later discovered.  Even though Athelstan could not yet read he had always been the closest and most dedicated to God in his family, even at his young age, and his father had told him to take their family bible with him so he had something to remind him that they still loved him, just in case the broken tears of his mother were not proof enough as she watched the Monks take her little boy away.

Cenwulf had been told to look after Athelstan, to be his mentor, teach him to read and write and learn more about the expected service under God and the life he will now lead.  Cenwulf had no confidence in himself for this task, he’d just got along quietly in his life here, not remembering anything before he was found as a very small child in the streets and brought to the monastery. His daily routine was prayer, writing, more prayer, digging up some vegetables, more prayer, scrubbing floors, and yet more prayer, so how looking after and teaching a young boy came into this now he didn’t know what he was going to do.

Perhaps this was a test from on High, to see how well he had trained his soul in the service of God, if he was dedicated enough to pass his teachings on to this young new impressionable soul.

So, taking a deep calming breath, Brother Cenwulf began to raise his young Monk.

Athelstan complained for days about how cold his head got after his tonsure had been shaved on top, so Cenwulf explained that this set them apart from other people, so they knew that they were Monks and had dedicated themselves to the church, knew that should they wish, people could talk to them and find comfort through their words.

Aside from that brief complaining, Athelstan never once complained about anything else, if anything he seemed to relish in this life.  He was a quick learner too, and by the time he was taught about the basics of living, like the food growing and fetching clean water and cleaning the floor and bed fabrics and cowls, he’d already been chosen to start many a hymn with his beautiful singing voice and could be found sitting in a corner with a candle and a bible skimming his fingers over the new words he was learning every day.  He followed Cenwulf around all the time like a puppy, copying everything he did, learning all prayers and routines and fiercely dedicating himself to everything that would please God. After practising for almost three years he was finally allowed to begin to write in official documentation, and was given his very own bible scripture to write and decorate.

His writing desk was next to Cenwulf’s of course, so the older Monk could keep an eye on him to make sure no mistakes were made, but Athelstan never made a mistake, not one, and ended up being both quicker and neater in his writing than Cenwulf was.

Cenwulf didn’t mind this, why would he, his young apprentice was flourishing, and Cenwulf felt nothing but pride…which he quickly squashed for after all that was a sin.

More years went by, and their relationship became less of a teacher and pupil and more of a simple friendship.  Athelstan was so popular with the other Monks, so talented in writing and singing and such dedication, he was like a shining flame between the cold stone walls of the monastery. Cenwulf missed him terribly when Athelstan was sent out as a missionary to other lands to spread the word of God, but always loved how Athelstan would tell stories for weeks after he came back of the things he’d seen and the new languages he had learnt. Cenwulf could listen to every word that fell from his lips, and he had, many a time.

It wasn’t all work though, they were allowed the occasional free time, though the little island was so small there wasn’t much one could do but go for walks along the sand or sit in the grass and look out at the ocean. Some of the younger Monks liked to go swimming in the cold sea, stripping themselves of all clothing and diving in, laughter a rare sound in such a quiet religious place, but it was nice, and no surprise Athelstan was the fastest swimmer out of all of them. 

Athelstan was always the best at everything, but there was not a hint of pride, not a hint of an ego, he always went out of his way to help others who may be struggling with their work, staying behind with those who needed more help tending to the fields or cooking in the kitchens, and always spent more time than any of them in prayer.  He even started helping Cenwulf with his writings, if he was stuck for a design chewing the end of his quill Athelstan would lean across and ask if he required any assistance, for somewhere along the line the pupil had become the teacher.

Athelstan was the perfect Monk, and Cenwulf began to wonder when he started thinking of him like that, especially as any time his mind wandered to Athelstan the thought of the young man always made him smile.  Not that it had to wander very often, it was widely known they were best friends now, barely spent a moment away from each other, even their beds in the dormitory were next to one another.

Perhaps….perhaps it was _that_ time that night when Cenwulf first began to think of his friend as perfect, that time when the moon was full and high in the sky.  Athelstan’s bed lay in front of one of the thin windows in the dormitory, and the moon was shining through all of them lighting up the whole large room.  Faint snores were coming from everywhere, but Cenwulf lay awake, looking at his friend.  Athelstan was fast sleep on his stomach, a position he seemed to favour to sleep in, arms wrapped around his pillow like a babe to its mother, face turned towards Cenwulf and sleeping softly in the faint light.

Perfect.  He was.  Everything about Athelstan was perfect, his writings, his prayers, his singing voice, even his hair.  Cenwulf ran a hand over what was left of his very little hair around his tonsure, having begun to go bald at a young age anyway.

It wasn’t jealousy, no, not that Cenwulf knew what that felt like for it too was a sin, just like pride, but he thought to be jealous would feel more….nasty.  This was not jealousy, he just liked to look at Athelstan that was all, he admired him, such a dedicated man, so caring to the other Monks so….so perfect.

He began to hide little poems under his pillow, where no one could see them.  He wrote them between his work writings, on scrap pieces of parchment that held mistakes, for he always made mistakes, unlike Athelstan.  He wrote them about his friend, nothing much, just praising him for his dedication to the monastery, to his friends and of course to God.  God would be so pleased to welcome Athelstan into his arms when his time came to spend the rest of eternity in heaven, he’d have a place for him at his side, Cenwulf was sure of it!

He’d get distracted watching how deep in concentration Athelstan was when writing, watching him out the corner of his eyes as Athelstan would lick his bottom lip then bite it, hand moving carefully to form the large long elongated curl to the top of the G at the beginning of his new sentence.

Cenwulf would look down to his own slow work, then to the scrap piece of parchment half hidden underneath it, and he’d begin to write on it again, telling in verse of how Athelstan’s eyes would narrow in concentration, how only a sliver of that sky blue could be seen, the way his fingers would hold the quill so firmly yet delicately, his wrist forming the fluid movements rather than his fingers.

These were poems he kept under his pillow, but there were some that never left the inside of his cowl, for dare anyone find them.

When he first began to write these he wasn’t sure, perhaps it was when he sat one warm summers evening on the sand watching some of the Monks swim, Athelstan smiling brightly at another younger monk as they both stripped off their cowls and under shirts and ran into the water as naked as the day they were born.

There was nothing wrong with watching their fun, he’d joined in on other times but today he did not feel like it, so he watched, smiling with the occasional chuckle as some of the newer younger boys let their childish ways spring forth for a little while and splashed water at the others. Athelstan splashed back, for even the child in him occasionally showed itself in their free time, though he was a man now. 

Lines formed in Cenwulf’s mind _, I think of your love and friendship with such sweet memories_ , _that I long for…_

For what?

_…long for that lovely time when I…_

Athelstan and the others made their way out of the water and climbed onto a small out crop of rocks.  It wasn’t very high at all, but enough for them to jump into the water to add to their fun.  Cenwulf watched as they all took turns, all naked just standing on the rock waiting and laughing, a display of Gods work in its purest form.

But he couldn’t take his eyes off Athelstan. Something rose in his chest, in his heart, and he found himself swallowing a lump in his throat before he tore his gaze away from the pale behind of his friend and stared down at the sand.

_Alas, if only it were granted to me, to be transported to you, how would I sink into your embrace…_

He glanced up again, Athelstan clapping at a particularly large splash from the man who’d jumped in front of him, before taking a great leap himself and landing with an equally big splash into the sea.

 _... how would I cover, with tightly pressed lips, not only your eyes, ears, and mouth but also your every finger and your toes, not once but many a time._  
  
Cenwulf could feel himself suddenly blushing deeply, so quickly rose from his seated position and made his way back to the monastery, to pray to God for forgiveness for these thoughts.

He ended up back at his writing desk, writing down those lines before he forgot them.

That night he spent once again wide awake, staring at the sleeping Athelstan.  He dared, could he dare, to reach out, just a little ways to his friend, and feel how soft those curls of hair really were?  Taking a quick look around, greeted with more closed eyes and snores, Cenwulf did just that.  All their beds were so close anyway he could reach Athelstan’s face whilst still tucked up under his own coverings.  Ever so lightly he ran two fingers through the curls over his forehead, soft just as he imagined, now especially through his time in the sea today, Athelstan not stirring at all.

He dared to move his fingers through those curls and down over the side of his face, just ever so lightly across that smooth pale skin, but this time Athelstan did stir, and Cenwulf whipped his hand back so fast and closed his eyes, slowing his breathing as though he hadn’t been touching his friend in the dead of night.

He peeked an eye back open a little while later, Athelstan hadn’t woken, just cuddled his pillow even tighter in his sleep.

_This flesh is so smooth, so milky, so unblemished,_

_So good, so handsome, so supple, so tender._

  
Cenwulf let out a small, quiet groan and shut his eyes tightly again, turning over away from Athelstan, reciting prayer in his head.

It wasn’t long before those prayers were taken over with more verse.

\----

And then the Vikings came.

The signs, the thunder storm, the evil presence that filled the very air itself, the Monks were terrified, as was Cenwulf, _especially_ Cenwulf, he was no brave man, but then none of them were.  They had led such sheltered lives, had only read about the end of the world none of them ever thinking they would actually live to see it.  Cenwulf stayed by Athelstan’s side as they watched the dark clouds through the window above his bed, the sea raging beneath them, and everyone was panicked and voicing their fears but Athelstan….Athelstan just stared out to the sea, expression frightened like the rest but somehow more stern, more calmed.  Of course it was, Athelstan would be the more level headed out of all of them, it just added to the list of things Cenwulf held as perfect.

Athelstan tried to warn Father Cuthbert, after the other Monks had pushed him to be the one to go and tell him, but the Father would hear nothing of it, sent Athelstan back to their dormitory.  He’d tried to be the good Monk, to tell them that Father Cuthbert did not believe this was the end, that they should all sleep and everything would be better by the morning.

None of them slept.  Well, a few did, but only because you could hear them thrash with the nightmares that plagued them.

As usual Cenwulf spent the night staring at Athelstan, who was lying on his back staring up at the ceiling, watching the flashes of lightening brighten the stone for brief periods.

Cenwulf tried to steady his nerves, “Brother Athelstan?” he whispered, and obviously he had failed in trying not to sound scared for Athelstan simply replied, “It is alright Brother Cenwulf.  Father Cuthbert would not lie to us, this is just a simple storm.” He then turned to look at his friend, smiling, “It will all be over by morning.”

That smile, Cenwulf could not help but smile back, Athelstan returning to his stare at the ceiling.

Athelstan’s smile was just like his singing, the kind that angel’s would have, and it calmed Cenwulf enough for him to close his eyes and perhaps fall asleep, knowing he had an angel resting beside him through this frightening time.

He tried to ignore the niggling voice that said that smile did not reach those worried blue eyes.

\---

He shouldn’t have run, he was so scared, but he shouldn’t have run.

This whole morning had been one long blur of terror and screams and blood, starting when a Monk returning from collecting berries had burst into the morning hymns, interrupting Athelstan and the others singing, screaming of giants with axes walking from the sea.

Hell and all its devils had arrived, and through the fear and running Cenwulf had somehow got separated from the one person he did not want to lose.  It wasn’t long before they met again though, for after one of these giants had grabbed him from behind and slipped a rope around his neck before he could even get a look at his captor, he was being marched across the grasses to the beach in line with other Monks captured, his friend Athelstan just ahead of him.

But he should not have a run, perhaps if he had not run, things would have turned out differently.

Cenwulf saw an escape, he knew it was cowardly, he knew he was leaving Athelstan behind, but he was terrified and wanted to go back to the monastery, even if it was now being burnt to the ground.

He made a run for it, though hands tied he ran to the ocean, trying desperately to escape this fate, but he was only free for a matter of seconds.  One of the larger devils grabbed him in the water, said something he did not understand then pushed his head under the sea.  He flailed and flailed, he did not want to die, only to escape, please, _please God have mercy for these evil thoughts I know I should not have had, please let me repent my sins!_

God must have heard, for he was not drowned that day, simply dragged back to the line-up of what would now be slaves, continuing their march to the boat.  He saw Athelstan look behind him, their eyes meeting, and Cenwulf looked away, ashamed at such a cowardly display.

But once again, he should not have run, for now he was soaking wet, bitterly cold, and the journey to this devil land across the sea held the most freezing wind and water he had ever thought existed.  His cowl was soaked through, his very skin was soaked through to the bone, and he sat next to Athelstan shivering.  Everyone was shivering, but he was the only one so wet, and if they did not land soon he would freeze.

But at least he sat next to his friend.

\----

The journey was long, as least it felt long, Cenwulf couldn’t really tell how long it was, every time he shut his eyes he’d open them again in darkness, or light, depending on which one he’d last seen.  He saw the way the leader of these devils looked at Athelstan, it made him feel uncomfortable, a devil of his own rising in his belly, so he’d simply try and snuggle further down into his freezing wet cowl, and lean a little closer to his Athelstan.

Cold, so very, very cold.

At one point he felt Athelstan move beside him, felt the presence of a hand over his own, just a fleeting touch, just a comforting gesture before it moved away again. He could barely feel the warmth from it, perhaps there was no warmth left. He didn’t open his eyes, but he figured the hand had moved because the devil leader was looking at his Athelstan again.

At some point he was pretty sure he saw the faint outline of land when he briefly peered through his frost covered eyelashes, but he’d closed his eyes again, his head now comfortably resting on Athelstan’s shoulder. He couldn’t remember when he’d put it there. He began to feel warm again, at least he thought it was warmth, a strange tingling sensation throughout all his skin. Perhaps it was his Athelstan’s warmth finally seeping into him, just being near him like this was maybe giving him fresh life, even if he couldn’t feel his fingers, or toes…or legs…or anything, really.

Funny, the boat didn’t feel like it was swaying any more, he couldn’t hear the waves, only his own heartbeat, a slow, slow pace…he was sure it was getting slower.  He felt nothing, not even the cold anymore.  The tingling had stopped. 

Everything had stopped.

His frozen blue lips parted, barely a whisper, “Athel…”

_Adrift on a devils sea, by the shores of hell, an angel I call friend will always……always……………a kiss I wish, one angel’s……kiss………………………._

_......................................................_

_………………………………._

_……………………..._

_……………….._

**_“May God rest your soul, Brother Cenwulf.”_ **

He knew that was his angels voice, but he also knew he was nowhere near his angel when he heard it.

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on true information about Monks of old writing secret love poems to each other, to view the article follow the link, also includes the full poems that I used snippets of in my fic: http://www.cracked.com/article_20474_5-shockingly-progressive-ideas-from-primitive-cultures_p2.html


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